


whole world's trying to get a piece of you

by veterization



Series: fluff verse [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 01:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6884209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veterization/pseuds/veterization
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles runs into Liam Payne, who just happens to be on his list of people he's allowed to sleep with. Peter isn't too pleased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	whole world's trying to get a piece of you

**Author's Note:**

> A few months ago, I started thinking about what men would be on Stiles' List, a train of thought that very quickly derailed into this story. I picked every candidate carefully, but if there's anything you need to know about me, it's that I am complete 1D trash, so of course, Liam Payne became my victim of choice in this story as for who Stiles gets to run into and charm (which is, as anybody who has ever stanned a celebrity, The Dream). 
> 
> It was an insane amount of fun to include Liam in a Teen Wolf story and to explore one of my personal favorite plot devices: jealousy. I think a lot of people put Peter in the primary jealous role, but to be honest, I think Stiles would be just as bad, even if he wouldn't realize it himself.
> 
> This is a continuation of the fluff verse, but you don't need to read the part prior to it for this to make sense.

Stiles has five approved people on his List: Leonardo DiCaprio, Andrew Garfield, Zac Efron, Nev Schulman, and One Direction’s Liam Payne.

The List had to be Peter approved, and it went through many drafts before it was, leading Stiles to believe that Peter can only be satisfied when Stiles’ choices are as obscure and unreachable as possible. The possessive undertone that came with Peter rejecting any homespun, fan-friendly celebrities is not lost on Stiles, although the derisive snort that followed his final group of either ridiculously famous A-listers or happily heterosexual superstars really wasn't necessary. Stiles knows what that snort means. It means _good look ever getting any of those people to knock on your front door_.

Meanwhile, everybody on Peter’s list is under the age to legally run for president.

“What am I supposed to take away from this?” Stiles says, staring at Peter’s choices with rapidly diminishing self-confidence. “Am I one day going to wake up and you’re gone because I don’t make you feel like enough of a cradle robber?”

“It’s a fantasy list,” Peter says hotly, snatching it back. “People we are highly unlikely to meet. Do you really expect to meet Leonardo DiCaprio and then, on top of that, manage to successfully woo him?”

“I managed to woo you,” Stiles points out.

“I’m easy.”

“I feel insulted,” Stiles says. Peter’s good at that, making that nagging itch that he’s just been subtly back-handed appear. “I could get Leonardo DiCaprio. He would be lucky to sleep with me.”

“Oh, all right.”

“I could.”

“I said all right,” Peter says, but he doesn't seem all too emphatic about it, more like he's hardly listening. “Do you want Chinese tonight?”

Stiles crosses his arms and doesn't say anything even though yes, Chinese does sound delicious. 

He knows that Peter's right, that it's unlikely that he'll ever actually stumble straight onto a celebrity's driveway or enchant them on Twitter with a sharp as cheddar tweet or see them in a restaurant eating for one. But there's a silly, child-like part of him that likes to imagine how it would play out and pretend it's possible. And it would be nice, he thinks, to get the chance if only to prove Peter wrong.

\--

His chance to do so comes like a comeshot straight out of the fucking sky on one extremely lucky day.

All of it is fate, really. He and Scott were supposed to hang out the day before, but Scott got caught up helping Deaton and rescheduled, at which point Stiles suggested grabbing much needed caffeine together the next day, and somehow all of this kismet rolled together in one blinding snowball of an opportunity of them going to the nearest coffeehouse today at two p.m. for muffins and espressos. If they had gone the day before, or the day before that, none of it would’ve worked out the way it clearly was meant to.

It starts out quietly enough. A long line, chatting about the weather, trying to figure out which pastry to pick out of the entire wall of tempting goods, and then, like a lightning bolt, things get interesting.

It's when they sit down that Stiles notices someone across the cafe. First it's just a quick glance, the kind of split-second look that's followed by a jolt of recognition and a snap of the neck to catch another glimpse, and Stiles instantly realizes he's _seen_ that head before. Those shoulders. That backside. Holy shit.

He grabs Scott's arm and squeezes. “Look over there.”

“Where?”

“ _Eleven o'clock._ It’s—Scott, that’s Liam Payne. I’m sure of it.”

“What?”

That is definitely Liam Payne. Stiles feels as if there’s a hummingbird trapped in his chest; he can hardly breathe. Is there even oxygen left in the room? Has Liam physically altered the vacuum of the earth by coming into this hole in the wall café in Beacon Hills?

“What is he doing here?” Why is he in Beacon Hills? Oh my god, where is Peter when he needs to rub in his naysayer face that Stiles does actually have the luck to run into famous people? “Oh my god.”

“Stiles, breathe.” Scott’s eyebrows are furrowed. “Who is he again?”

“Scott, are you kidding me?” First Star Wars and now this? Stiles is going to have to let Scott go. “Who are you? _Four_ is always, _always_ in my glove compartment. _Take Me Home_ is _the most important album in the world_.”

He looks back over at Liam, who has yet—thankfully—to overhear Stiles’ gushing and find it necessary to put a safe distance between them. They’re _so close_. Stiles can see what he’s eating, can see what he’s drinking, can see him smooth back his quiff. God, Stiles thinks as his mouth waters. Not everybody can pull of an undercutted quiff like that.

“Do you think I should go over to him?” Stiles whispers. “He’s on my list.”

“Your list?”

“My _list_. My list of people I’m allowed to sleep with.”

Oh god. Stiles can’t believe he’s in a position to actually make this happen. Not that he doesn’t have the capacity to fuck this up, but _jesus christ_ , there must be some outrageously lucky stars that smiled down on him today to even give him the opportunity.

“You’re going to ask to sleep with him?”

“Yes, I’m going to drop my pants and proposition him,” Stiles says. He feels so warm; he might have a fever. “ _No_. I’m going to talk to him. I’m—holy shit, I’m going to go talk to him.”

“Are you sure? You look a little sweaty?”

Stiles gropes the napkin holder until he has one in his hand, patting his forehead dry. He feels like a kid in junior high asking somebody to a school dance, all clammy thumbs and racing thoughts. The longer he sits here staring at the back of Liam Payne’s head, the more his nerves are going to convince him it’s a bad idea, so he pushes himself to his feet and doesn’t give his anxiety a chance to kill his bravery.

He walks over to Liam. It’s the longest two seconds of his life. He looks at him, his profile, the curve of his nose, the darkness of his facial hair that Stiles wants to take a nap in, how very three-dimensional and _real_ he is in front of Stiles.

For a horrifying second, his brain screams at him _WHAT ARE YOU DOING_.

“Hi,” Stiles says. Liam’s face tips up. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Liam says, and that’s the third time the word hi has been spoken, which Stiles is pretty sure is not a good sign, up until Liam shoots a thousand-watt smile at him and Stiles wishes he had smelling salts at the ready.

“I’m Stiles,” he says. “I’m—I’m a big fan of your face.” The screaming voice in his brain reaches barbarically loud volumes. “And your music. And other things.”

Oh my god, Peter was right. Stiles is a complete loon and he most absolutely cannot woo someone like Leonardo DiCaprio, let alone talk to him. His face must be beet red. He needs to get out of here.

Right as he’s about to do just that and excuse himself and go home and never leave his room again, Liam starts chuckling.

“I’m flattered you’re a fan,” Liam says. “Do you want to join me?”

“Join you?” Stiles repeats. His brain is short-circuiting. “There’s—there’s no way. I’m going to say the stupidest stuff.”

“Nonsense,” Liam says. He pats the spot on the booth next to him. “C’mon. You’re very funny.”

Liam thinks he’s _very funny_. All Stiles can think to say is “your vocals in Through The Dark are way underrated” or the less eloquent “huurrrn,” because apparently, he’s stopped being able to communicate like a human. He sits down next to Liam.

“I really like having company,” Liam says. “When we went on break, I thought I’d enjoy the silence, but as it turns out, I miss being around people.”

“I’m a person,” Stiles says, and dear god, he needs to duct tape his mouth. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay, I’m not normally so bad at this. I’m just—just way too attracted to you to be good with my words. “Liam’s eyes are wide when Stiles looks over at him. “Sorry. Was that too forward?”

“No,” Liam says immediately. “It’s—it’s flattering. Especially since you’re not bad yourself.”

“I—seriously?”

“Listen, do you want to check out a club with me tonight?”

Holy shit, is he being asked out? He must be doing something right here, not that Stiles knows what that is. Is he secretly irresistible? Is this his super power? If so, where the hell was it when he was a complete loser those first few years of high school?

He lets himself smile. “Yeah. That’d be great. Hell, I’m still processing that I’m here in front you right now.”

“Okay, awesome,” Liam says. He fishes a twenty dollar bill out of his pocket and puts it onto the table. “I have to get going, I’m so sorry. But tonight—the club on Third Street, around eight. Bring friends if you’d like. Just say you’re a guest of mine.”

“Uh. Yeah. Sounds good.”

He watches, as if in a foggy dream, as Liam stands up and smiles at him in lieu of a goodbye, walking to the door and giving Stiles the A+ view of his ass in his snug jeans. He looks like an angel, if angels would be lucky enough to have those plump lips and that caramel hair. Stiles waits until he's out of his line of sight and then promptly jumps to his feet and runs back to his and Scott's table, feeling slightly high and very dizzy.

"What happened?" Scott asks as Stiles feels his way back to his seat.

"I think he just asked me out," Stiles says, still not sure any of that really happened. Did somebody overhear? Were there cameras overhead? Can anybody confirm that Stiles wasn't just sitting at an empty table hallucinating? "Liam Payne, absurdly rich and famous Liam Payne, asked me to come to a party tonight."

Saying it out loud makes it all the wackier, and also all the more _real_. Where does he even begin now? Buy fancy deodorant? Stock up on breath mints? Gloat in Peter's face before he tackles any of that?

"Seriously?" Scott asks. "What did you say?"

"I said _yes_. Scott, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. This is the universe giving me a gift. This is the heavens opening up and giving me the offering of hot British men I'm contractually allowed to hit on."

“So you think Peter’s going to be fine with this?”

“Uh, he _has_ to be. He _agreed_. We sat down and both picked five people and he _let me keep Liam_ after shooting down more than fifty-thousand people.” Okay, so maybe he’s exaggerating just a little bit, but Peter really didn’t make this easy on him. “I’m not letting him freak out over this. I _deserve_ this.”

He must be talking with a fair amount of wild determination, because Scott doesn’t press the fact that Peter is probably going to shit his pants over this. Stiles _knows_ that Peter’s going to shit his pants. To be honest, he’s actually a little bit excited about it.

\--

Peter is not exactly a low-maintenance boyfriend. He’s jealous, and demanding, and inconsiderate, and most importantly, just in case it wasn’t already stressed, _jealous_.

Stiles first discovered this about one week into sleeping with Peter, when grabbing lunch together, a guy in line behind Stiles expressed appreciation for Stiles’ specific order of easy on the whipped cream, strawberry and chocolate hybrid, only-real-fruit milkshake and smiled at him, which prompted Peter to suddenly fly to Stiles’ side and squeeze his ass even though he was in charge of finding them a good table and claiming it. Instead, despite expressing his hatred for waiting in lines just a few minutes earlier, Peter stood there with Stiles with his arm slung around his waist like it was fused there and refused to leave.

Stiles wrote it off as it being an aggressive time of the month for Peter, possibly close to the full moon, but then he experienced a repeat performance a few days later.

Stiles was out at Barnes & Noble looking for a gift for his father—or more truthfully, being there with the intention of looking for a gift for his father but ultimately being completely distracted by the dramatic autobiographies in the front. He ended up sneaked away between a few shelves with Michelle Kwan's biography in his lap, three chapters in, when a guy Stiles knew in middle school showed up and happened to recognize him. They chatted for a bit, mostly about their memories of seventh grade science class, and Stiles took a few selfies with the guy for old time's sake.

Ten minutes later, Peter was there, apparently spending his time checking the geotags on Stiles’ Instagram posts.

“Who was that?” Peter asked as Stiles stuffed Michelle’s book back into the shelf and his friend, who was doing a spectacular job of pretending to be “late for a thing” instead of being totally creeped out by Peter’s sudden appearance and possessive glaring, left the bookstore.

“Some guy I knew from school,” Stiles said. He turned to Peter. “Is there a reason you’re here? Other than to monitor my every move?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Peter said. “I enjoy literature too. You don’t have a copyright on enjoying a day at the bookstore.”

“You told me this morning that you were going to the gym.”

“I did go to the gym,” Peter told him, absolutely refusing to admit to anything that put him in a negative light. “Not everything is about you, Stiles. Honestly.”

Stiles dropped it. At the time, he was still straddling the fence between being flattered and being annoyed at Peter’s green-eyed tendencies, but it didn’t take long for the novelty of Peter being jealous to wear off. He didn’t mind the little things, like Peter’s obsession with giving Stiles hickeys right on his throat for the world to see, or giving Stiles his shirts to sleep in because he enjoyed his own scent on Stiles’ skin, but some of the bigger things. They were maddening.

There was one time when Peter flew into a jealous rage that could only be described as a monumental hissy fit and shredded someone’s tires. It was probably the worst jealous rage Stiles had ever seen Peter fly in, what with the vandalism and all that, especially considering what triggered it. It was just a guy, telling Stiles that he'd be willing to help with the hole in his tire when they ended up stranded on the side of the highway with a flat tire and Stiles’ spare already in use. While Peter had been busy berating Stiles for not _taking precautions_ and _driving with a spare, for god’s sake_ and _how had he even survived this long doing such blatantly stupid things_ , a pick-up truck pulled to the side of the road and a handsome young man with a striking jaw and car technician experience appeared.

“There’s a nail in your tire,” he said after kneeling by the car and feeling the tire. “It’s beyond fixing, I’m afraid. You’ll ruin your car if you keep driving on it.”

“Is there anything you can do?” Stiles asked. He took a chance and leaned in a fraction. “I’m sure those muscles have a few tricks up their sleeves.”

He grinned. It was totally harmless. It was just like people who flirted with police officers to get out of tickets—something Stiles would do himself if everybody on the force in town didn’t already know him by license plate alone—and it didn’t mean anything significant. Just a little buttering up to maybe get a discount on towing services. In his peripherals, Stiles saw Peter stomp away and down the road’s shoulder.

“I think we can work something out,” the guy said, which Stiles took as his cue to lean against his Jeep and chuckle. He knew he had a nice laugh—contagious, even—and let it do the work for him.

“Do you think you could help me out with the towing?”

“Excuse me,” Peter said, suddenly appearing next to Stiles. He bore a deceivingly sweet smile, and Stiles was immediately concerned about what exactly he had done. “You might want to tend to your own tires before you help out with his.”

“My own tires?”

“Three of them,” Peter said. “Looks like a wild animal to me.” He shrugged, the picture of innocence, and Stiles was going to kill him later. “Shame, too. If it had been four, your insurance would be able to cover the damage.”

Stiles didn’t even know what to _say_.

Needless to say, his car’s knight in shining armor disappeared to attend to his slaughtered tires, and Peter was left to call the tow service himself, a satisfied smile on his face all the while. Nobody looked _satisfied_ while they called a tow service, which was enough proof for Stiles that Peter had completely lost it and ravaged somebody’s car all because he felt a little bit threatened by the biceps of a grease monkey. When Stiles called him out on it, however, his smile was replaced by a firm frown, like Stiles should have been thanking him for saving him from the Big, Bad, Mean Car Mechanic.

“He was only trying to help, you know.”

“Oh, I think I know exactly what he was trying to do.”

“I can’t help it if I’m irresistible,” Stiles said. Peter’s deep frown wasn’t slipping away from his face, though; if anything, it was cementing itself into place. “Are you about to have a coronary? What are you so upset about?”

“I’m not upset,” Peter said. He was talking in that crisp, clipped way in which he over-enunciated every word for no good reason, which contradicted his words.

“Oh—I get it. You’re jealous.”

Peter said nothing. He looked like with every passing second, he was turning into a very firm, very angry statue.

"I wasn't going to sleep with him," Stiles said, amazed that that even had to be made clear. "It's not like he was Ewan McGregor."

"Oh, so you would sleep with Ewan McGregor?"

The grumpy look on Peter's face made it obvious what answer Stiles _should've_ provided, but honestly, if Ewan McGregor was at his door looking to get freaky, yeah, he probably wouldn't turn that down. That was a once in a lifetime opportunity and after very little sexual luck in high school, he would definitely deserve a no-strings-attached romp in the sheets with a celebrity. Briefly, he noted the similarities between Ewan and Peter, from the facial hair to the distinguished look of a groomed older man, and vaguely wondered if he had a _type_.

"Uh, probably," Stiles said, not seeing the point in lying when Peter would immediately point out his dishonesty the second he would've said, with an innocent smile, _no, of course not_. As predicted, Peter did not look amused. "What? It's not that weird. Are you honestly telling me that if someone hot and famous was looking to bark up your tree you'd say no?"

Peter's jaw shifted left and right. He seemed to be struggling between being truthful and making Stiles feel bad about himself. Naturally, the latter won out. "I would."

"Oh, come on!" He took a step closer, jabbing his finger into Peter's chest. "Imagine that Joe Jonas is at your door. He's half-naked. He's cold and lost and looking for some hospitality."

"That's a ridiculous premise."

"Roll with it," Stiles pressed. "What are you gonna do, bake cookies? Pretend he isn't there, sitting all wanton and needy and in need of warming up on your couch?"

"What even is the _point_ of this?"

"Ha," Stiles said, folding his arms over his chest. "I knew it. You couldn't resist." A thought struck him. "We should have a list."

"A list?"

"Yeah. Of famous people we're allowed to sleep with. A _list_."

Peter frowned. "Are you not happy with the spiciness of our sex life?"

Considering that last night had involved peanut butter and a thrilling burglar/lonely working-from-home employee role play, no, Stiles was definitely not unhappy. Peter was about as saucy as they came in bed, each time somehow always more thrilling than the last, which meant that if this relationship endured for a bit, Stiles would probably rocket off to space by the time he was thirty with the force of his orgasms.

"It's spicy enough. It's spicy as _hell_. If our sex life was food, it'd be all the wasabi rolls you can eat," Stiles said. "I just think it'd be neat if we had a list. Doesn’t mean I want to be with you any less. Like, five people each."

Peter still seemed to have hefty qualms, eyebrows taut in irritated slants. "And if these people wanted your relationship to progress after your no strings attached night of sex—"

"No dice," Stiles said. "Just sex. Once. What do you think?"

Peter kept frowning. There was a vein Stiles had never noticed before pulsing in his forehead, and for a good chunk of silence, Stiles was sure Peter was just looking for a nicer way to say _fuck no, forget about it, you absurd two-timing fucker,_ but then Peter's eyebrows relaxed and he said, "All right. If you think you handle it."

"Handle what?"

"The mental image of me making passionate love to Joe Jonas, obviously," Peter said. "The jealousy could eat you whole."

"I'll try and keep myself in check," Stiles said dryly. "Let me know when Joe shows up at your door."

\--

It takes Stiles a good half hour to snap out of his catatonic state in the coffeehouse while he considers the possibility of ending the night in Liam Payne's swanky hotel room surrounded by Presidential Suite amenities like champagne and those plush, marshmallow-like bathrobes. The fact that he only has t-minus a few hours to prepare for said possibility is what jerks him into action. He tells Scott he has to go prepare—physically, mentally, sexually, _hell_ , spiritually—and all but skips his way down the street back home, at which point he remembers that Peter would probably like to know about these developments, not to mention that Stiles definitely wants to tell him.

He whips out his phone and calls Peter, positively giddy while he waits through the ringing. This is the best news he has to share since he was able to prove to his dad that he _could_ get out of a speeding ticket without his help, thank you very much, even if it did require him finagling a story out of his ass about being terribly late for his grandfather's funeral to actually get the job done.

“What's up, Stiles?” Peter says when he picks up.

“Peter! You won’t fucking believe it.”

“Yes, I'm aware that pumpkin flavors come back every fall. No need to sound so surprised.”

“ _Not that_ ,” Stiles brushes off. “I just met _Liam Payne_.”

“Who?”

Okay, after the high of being in the vicinity of a living, breathing One Direction member wears off, Stiles is locking both Scott and Peter in a room and forcing them to listen to the long discography journey that starts with _Up All Night_ and ends with _Made in the AM_. That, or he needs to start hanging out on those 1D forums again and make some new friends.

“Liam Payne. One Direction's Liam Payne. Seriously, Peter, use Google and join the twenty-first century.”

“Is any of this supposed to matter to me?”

“Yes!” Stiles cries, squeezing the phone. “Dude, Liam is on my list. My _list_ list. And he just asked me to go to a club with him tonight.”

There's the sound of sharp rustling, like Peter's finally straightening up into a listening position. “Somebody on your list just asked you out?” he asks, almost incredulously, like his carefully crafted algorithm of only picking celebrities either out of range, only batting on the heterosexual playing field, or already married has somehow failed him from keeping Stiles from enjoying any one night stand sex with a famous hottie.

“Yes,” Stiles says. He feels giddy. Giddy enough to start spiraling off into the sun any second because this one single moment has just validated his attractiveness and approachability after years of staring in mirrors and wondering if this is as good as it's gonna get. “Peter, I'm starting to think I'm _desirable_. This might go to my head.”

“Good lord.”

“I mean, it was literally like a higher power just saw me today and thought I needed cheering up and give me Liam Payne strolling around like a wet dream in my very town.”

“Stiles.”

“You were _so sure_ I wasn't cool enough for anybody on my list, and look at me now!” Stiles laughs, and it's the kind of triumphant chuckle only those who have just won a dispute or proven themselves right can master. “I'm cool enough for international boybanders. I'm cool enough for a member of One Direction.”

"Stiles, stop talking," Peter says. "Tell me exactly what happened."

He doesn't say it like a squealing, supportive friend would with lots of exclamation points at the end, but more like an FBI officer conducting an interrogation. Stiles waits for Peter to crack up, but the other end of the phone is silent, like Peter is listening with deadly intent right now waiting for the detailed story of Stiles' encounter.

"Would you relax? It's not like he threatened to knife me if I didn't go out with him." Stiles smirks. "Unless that killer smile counts as a weapon, I'm pretty sure he was unarmed."

"And he just _asked you out?_ "

"You don't have to sound so _suspicious_ ," Stiles grumbles. "I'm not a shabby looking guy."

“And you’re _sure_ it was him?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Stiles says. He’s starting to get a little annoyed by the third degree. “You can’t take this away from me, you asshole. I won’t let you. Liam is on my list and you agreed to that list and that list is _law_. We practically shook on it.”

“We didn’t shake on it.”

“And this isn’t me asking for your permission, this is me letting you know that tonight, me and Liam Payne are going to dance in a cool hip young club and I am going to live out a wild fantasy you can’t say _anything about it_.”

A long, pregnant pause is Peter’s reply. Stiles has an insane thought for a second that maybe Peter’s matured enough to no longer need the last laugh, but then he hears Peter drawing in a slow breath. He prepares himself for a detailed list of reasons Stiles needs to reconsider, but what he gets instead is, “All right. As if I would try and stop you.”

“…what?”

“You heard me. What kind of person do you think I am?” Peter asks, like he’s the poster boy for virtue and honesty, which immediately puts Stiles on his guard. “I won’t interfere,” he promises. “Stiles, I have another call. I’m going to have to let you go.”

“I—okay.”

Peter hangs up. Stiles ends up staring at the phone for a few long seconds, feeling unsettled and concerned and a little bit like he ought to start looking out for snipers and hitmen around every corner because that went much too smoothly.

Obviously Peter is going to interfere. All Stiles has to do now is try and outsmart him.

\--

The first time Stiles noticed Peter had a bit of a jealous streak was about two months into sleeping with him.

They were lying in Peter's bed, basking in nude, post-coital glory, Peter's finger tracing patterns on Stiles' hand like a palm reader looking for ominous signs about his future. It was right in between their relationship’s transition of just sex and more than sex, when they were fucking like animals but also starting to spend more than necessary time together, from getting lunch to actually sleeping over, and so their relationship was at a delicate stage where the rules of how possessive they were allowed to be and how exclusive they were going to be were still unspoken. Tangled in sweaty sheets and pleasantly sated, it was a perfectly lovely afternoon, right up until Peter brought up:

"The first man you ever kissed," he murmured, stroking his index finger down Stiles' hand. "Was it me?"

Stiles snorted. "Sorry to burst your bubble," he said. "It wasn't."

The idle tracing stopped. "Who was it?"

Stiles shrugged. "Some kid. It was freshman year of high school and I was obsessed with sneaking into parties—I kept telling Scott it would make us look cool. This kid two years older than me was there. Super drunk." He shrugged, remembering the intense... slipperiness of that particular kiss. "I don't think he realized who he was kissing when he kissed me. But it wasn't bad."

He chuckled at the memory. There was definitely a lot of tongue. Things were wetter than expected, and that scratch of unshaved stubble was definitely a surprise. His chuckling came to an abrupt halt when he tilted his head to look at Peter and instantly noticed his grim expression.

"What's wrong?"

"Are you still in contact with him?" Peter asked.

"What? I don't even know the guy's name!" Stiles said, suddenly feeling a little less like he was in bed and a little more like he was sitting on a stretch of hot coals. "Are you seriously upset about this?"

"I'm not _upset_."

"Oh, really? What is all this, then?"

"A fair bit of justified surprise at your—your lascivious past."

"My _lascivious past?_ " Stiles asked, sitting up. "What, are you honestly gonna tell me that I was your first guy?"

"Of course you weren't."

"And do you see me getting jealous about that?"

Peter seemed momentarily speechless, backed into a corner he couldn't debate his way out of. His mouth pressed together, expression displeased.

"Listen, if it makes you feel better," Stiles said, throwing Peter a bone and leaning down to set his chin on Peter's chest, "you were the first guy I ever sucked off, and definitely the first guy who ever fucked me." He stroked Peter's collarbones, pressing against the warmth of his skin. "Does this kind of stuff seriously bother you?"

Peter seemed to relent with his rigidity. “Not at all,” he said. “I’m not the type to get jealous.”

“Really? ‘Cause you seem like the exact opposite.”

“I’m a very level-headed, reasonable person,” Peter insisted. “Why would I worry about you cheating when I know perfectly well that I’m the best sex you’ve ever had?”

“Maybe because aside from being a cocky asshole, you’re also a _werewolf_ , and I know you guys love your scenting and marking and other weird possessive rituals to make other people back off.” Honestly, all the purpling bruises and dark red hickeys had to be proving his point. “Why don't you tell me about the first time you were with a guy,” Stiles said, trailing his hand up Peter's shoulders. “And you can watch how cool and calm and collected I'll stay while you do.”

He raised his eyebrows to his hairlines in a gesture that he tried his very best to convey a challenge, something he knew Peter couldn't resist. Peter seemed to take the bait, because he shifted his legs, jostling the sheets, and took a moment to mentally embellish the memory he was about to share.

"All right," he said. "His name was Michael. He was—he had an air about him. He knew what he wanted."

"Michael, huh?" Stiles said. "Did he let you call him Mikey?"

Peter ignored him. "We had a very short-lived, passionate relationship. We awakened in each other a sexual fire, if you will, that was... difficult to quench when we parted ways."

Okay, Stiles was starting to get a little unnerved. Not jealous—it felt almost fundamentally impossible to be jealous of Peter's past when he was the one currently draped over his naked, warm, bare body. But unnerved.

“Sometimes, bodies are just... compatible, physically, and ours were. I spent most of our time together without clothes.” Peter’s eyes glazed over, as if distracted by the fond memory, before returning to the here and now. “Anyway. It was a very good summer.”

“An _entire summer_?”

“A good three months, yes. And then we ended up losing touch. We had a good run while it lasted.”

_Three months_. Peter and Stiles had exceeded that particular record by now, but still, Stiles’ brain was whirling up a storm. Was Michael a better lover than he was? Was he better at handjobs? Did he know all of Peter’s little kinks and sexy places, like that spot in the middle of his chest? Was Peter _comparing_ the two of them in bed? Hell, was Peter comparing Stiles to anybody he slept with before at all? Stiles was practically new at this—he once got a very inexperienced blowjob a few years back on a particularly adventurous night, and that was the extent of his sexual history before Peter came along—but Peter was seasoned. Who knew how many people he’d been with before Stiles? Was he supposed to be worried about that? It wasn’t like any of them were here now. _Stiles_ was here now, and he had certainly appreciated Peter’s experience when they first started sleeping together.

“And?” Peter asked.

“Sorry, what?” Stiles said, unsure of how much he had missed while his brain was busy tormenting itself.

“And are you jealous? Or cool, calm, and collected, as promised?”

“I mean,” Stiles began. “They’re in the past. And I’m here, in the present, and hopefully the future, so there’s no point in getting jealous.” He looked at Peter for confirmation, just to see if he would chuckle and let Stiles know that he was actually seeing all of his ex-lovers on the side, thank you very much, and it’s not like he and Stiles were _exclusive_. “Hey. How would you feel about… only sleeping with me.”

“Are you under the impression that I have a sexual clown car coming through my bedroom every day?”

“You know what I mean,” Stiles said. “Just you and me. In the present. Who cares who was there before.”

Stiles wanted to stuff the words back into his mouth the moment they came out, certain he had just made a complete fool of himself, but then Peter gently picked Stiles’ hand back up and resumed tracing the lines on his palm, the touch almost ticklish.

“I’d be all right with that,” Peter said.

Stiles felt a smile pull at him. “All right,” he said. “Just you and me.”

\--

It takes Stiles three times longer than usual to get ready for the evening at the club.

One reason is because he’s going to see Liam fucking Payne and even if he sees nothing more than glimpses of him swept hither and thither by people grappling for his attention, this still isn’t a day at school where a graphic tee and a plaid shirt are going to be enough, so he changes multiple times while staring in front of a mirror laboring over if he’s toeing the line of sexy and trying too hard.

The other reason is that he keeps thinking about what sex with Liam would be like and inadvertently distracting himself. Which is ridiculous because it’s highly unlikely that’ll happen—what’s likelier is that Stiles will bop along to techno music all night looking for Liam’s head amid the humongous crowd and never being able to find it—but what if the impossible _does_ happen? What if Liam Payne _wants_ him? Shouldn’t he mentally prepare?

He’s guessing that Liam is a pretty confident guy in bed. He hasn’t had sex with many men, Peter obviously giving him the most experience—all right, the _only_ experience—and he doesn’t seem like a fair comparison to make. Peter’s an animal in bed, all passion and fast-moving hands and unforgiving teeth and werewolf libido, and nobody can exactly measure up to that, which immediately has Stiles thinking: what if Liam is into vanilla sex? Stiles could easily be disappointed after being conditioned to become aroused when Peter shows off his strength and picks Stiles up by the ass or shows off his reflexes and rips Stiles’ shirt off in seconds. What if he doesn’t have a single move and Stiles has to pretend to be turned on?

The thing is, Stiles thought about sex with celebrities long before he ever had a list of even a boyfriend to make a list with. It's always good; it _has_ to be good. It's not based on any sort of emotional connection, just lust and attraction and the tendency to say "woweeee" with a lot of extra Es at the end when he sees pictures of them online. What if sex without any sort of prior connection sucks? What if Liam’s boring? Oh god, what if he doesn't even know how to go down on a guy? What if his entire life people have just been happy to suck him off with no reward and Liam's never even learned how to give someone an orgasm?

Stiles has a pair of snug purple jeans on and is holding two shirts up to his chest and is contemplating these very horrors of Liam's inadequacy in bed when Peter appears suddenly in the doorway, stepping inside the room.

“What do you think of these pants?” Stiles asks, pivoting toward him. “Do I look like Barney the dinosaur?”

“I’m coming with you tonight,” Peter says.

“Wait, what?”

“Tonight. I’m coming with you,” Peter says slowly. “To the club.”

“Why?”

“Nothing about our lists say we can’t meet and vet our respective choices.”

“ _Vet?_ ” There will be no vetting. There's no need for vetting. Peter's not his dad, and he doesn't have to chase off incompatible suitors for him with shotguns, and he doesn't have to be involved in this at all. This is supposed to be simple; that's why the list doesn't have addendums or rules or regulations printed on the back.

“Don't worry,” Peter says, then nudges Stiles aside from the mirror to adjust the way his shirt lays on his shoulders. “I won't menace him.”

“Oh? What will you do? Are you going to eat him?”

Peter shoots Stiles a look. “Of all the people to maim and eat,” he says, “why would I choose a high-profile celebrity whose murder would be extremely televised?”

Stiles doesn't even know what to say. This has to be another rampant flare-up of jealousy, in which case Stiles is about to be cockblocked by his own boyfriend from a man he will probably only have one chance to seduce and ravage. How exactly is he supposed to stop this from happening? Is there a polite, effective way of asking Peter to stay home and let him sleep with Liam Payne in peace? What sort of ungodly obstacles are coming his way tonight?

Stiles folds his arms across his chest. “You're going to rear-end us if I go home with him, aren't you?”

Peter tuts. “As if I would steal tricks from your book.”

Stiles colors, instantly remembering slamming his Jeep into Peter's car that one fateful night Scott had begged him to intervene on his mother's date. Bringing that up is in poor taste. “That was years ago, and, and. I didn't do it because I was jealous.”

Peter turns to face him. It's annoying how good he looks with so little effort, that low cut shirt making Stiles want to lick sweat out of his collarbones, and here Stiles is next to him in purple pants looking like an undignified grape after trying on four other outfits. 

“You think I'm jealous?” Peter asks, sounding so curious it's almost like the idea hasn't even occurred to him.

“Uh, yeah.” Stiles throws one of the shirts in his hand onto the bed, finally deciding just to give in and try it on. He wrangles it over his head. “You get jealous all the time. Over the tiniest of shit.”

“Excuse me?”

“I can count more than ten times off the top of my head when I was worried you were gonna behead someone in public because someone so much as told me they like my shoes.”

“That's a flirtatious statement.”

“Not from a ninety-year-old woman using a cane who just needed help with her hearing aid,” Stiles says. Hearing it out loud is not making it sound any more reasonable. “Just admit it. You're like a tiny little kid who never learned how to share and so you just hoard and hoard and hoard and hiss whenever somebody comes by your stockpile and tries to take something.”

“Why should they if it's _my_ stockpile?”

Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose. "The point is, you don't—I'm not some piece of property you own, so you have to ease up on treating me like one."

“I don't treat you like _property_ ,” Peter says. “I treat you like my boyfriend. Which you are. My exclusive boyfriend.” At Stiles' silence, Peter snaps, “What?”

“It's just—I don't think I've ever heard you directly call me your _boyfriend_ like that before.” Which, now that he thinks about it, is a bit odd, considering how long they've been going out. It just looks _weird_ coming out of Peter’s mouth.

Peter's lips thin. “What would you prefer? My snookums? My gentleman caller? My slampiece?”

“Seriously, never say any of those again,” Stiles tells him. He smooths out his shirt, trying to iron the wrinkles away with his hands. He’s starting to wonder if there’s a single shirt in his closet that’s actually flattering on him. “Boyfriend is fine. It just sounds a little... silly, I guess.”

“Silly?” Peter frowns. “You've called me your boyfriend before.”

“I know, but, it’s different when you say it.” Maybe it’s because Stiles is too used to hearing Peter say things like _let’s torture them_ and _do you want to fuck at my place or yours tonight_ and _if one more vendor approaches me at the mall to sell me something I’m going to circumcise them with my teeth_ , not sweet, innocent words like _boyfriend_. “It just doesn’t sound right.”

“Let me get this straight,” Peter says, stepping closer, a tick by his temple. “You don't think you're my boyfriend? Is that why you're gallivanting off with random celebrities?”

“No! For god's sake. Yes, I'm your boyfriend, and no, I'm not _gallivanting_ anywhere. It's my list. A list we agreed on. You can call me your boyfriend if it rocks your socks so much.” He looks at himself in front of the mirror, trying to figure out if he looks stylish and handsome or like a candidate for What Not To Wear. “Is this shirt okay?”

“What kind of person is Liam?” Peter asks, ignoring him completely. There's a deep wrinkle between his eyebrows that looks like it's carved into his skin. “What sort of things does he sing about?”

“Why, child slavery, Donald Trump, drug wars, you know.” Stiles wrestles the shirt back off of himself, ready to go back to the drawing board at this point. “Seriously. Have you never heard a single 1D song in your life?”

“How good looking is he?” Peter presses, the wrinkle somehow getting deeper still.

“You're the worst,” Stiles says, diving back into the closet for a new tee. He grimaces, cycling through shirt after shirt without anything seeming like a viable candidate. "I still don't really like _boyfriend_. Doesn't _partner_ sound better? Less like we're going to meet behind the bleachers later and make out before class?"

He waits for a passive-aggressive response, like an unrelated question about Liam’s sexual health, or a stubborn refusal to call Stiles anything other than honeybunny if he’s going to be that way, but it’s completely silent outside of the closet. Stiles sticks his head out after another minute of quiet, and the bedroom is empty, Peter nowhere to be seen. Probably off googling ways to murder celebrities without getting caught by the paparazzi.

Whatever. Stiles isn’t going to let Peter drag him down.

“With your love, nobody can drag me down,” Stiles sings under his breath, and decides to fuck it and just go with the first shirt.

\--

Stiles isn't as jealous as Peter, but he has his moments.

For the most part, Peter just isn't all that approachable. Stiles doesn't care how much Peter waxes on about how charming and charismatic and intriguing he is, that face spells trouble and everybody sees it, even if he has some pretty sweet facial hair and piercing blue eyes to go with it. People don't flirt with Peter that often, but sometimes it happens. Someone without any sense of incoming danger who can't see through all of Peter's off-handed coy statements leaves their number on Peter's receipt, or smiles a little too brightly, or starts asking about Peter's car like that's not a classic pick-up technique, and Stiles is left to watch it all from the sidelines feeling bamboozled.

It just doesn't make sense, is all. And Stiles can't say he's too pleased with the way Peter always flirts back, probably enjoying the ego-stroking and general reassuring of his desirability, especially when Stiles is right there, no matter how harmless it is. He always shakes off that itchy feeling that comes with watching someone laugh at Peter's jokes fairly quickly, pretty certain that Peter isn't about to leave him for some stranger at the mall, but the point of it all is that feeling is _there_ , and Stiles hates it.

And it's not like he's the kind of person to snoop through phones and dig up evidence of affairs and infidelity, but Stiles does think about it from time to time—if Peter has ever thought about breaking up with him, who he'd leave him for, what it would be like to know that his idle flirting had actual intention behind it. It's never a pleasant train of thought, the kind that typically ends with him critically eyeing his lanky body in the mirror and wondering what Peter sees in it, if he ought to work out more, or change his hair, or grow a mustache, but then Peter shows up and tugs Stiles over to the nearest flat surface and Stiles forgets all about his insecurities and the fact that he doesn't look like David Beckham.

Still. A little bit of jealousy flares up now and then for Stiles too.

There was one time Stiles won't be forgetting any time soon. They were out at the theater, standing in line and trying to compromise over the movie to watch, when Peter's eyes fixed on a spot over Stiles' shoulder and abruptly stopped arguing.

"What is it?" Stiles asked, and made the mistake of turning around and looking. There was a rather handsome, grizzly man in the line behind them gazing up at the movie selection, everything about him looking like it had been carved out of marble. "Who's that?"

"An old friend," Peter answered.

Stiles snorted. "You have friends?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

A few warning bells went off in Stiles’ head. "What does that mean?"

"Our packs ran in the same circles. Our families used to be close, before most of mine died." Which was an explanation Stiles' could've lived with, up until Peter added, "He's actually an ex of mine."

" _What?!_ "

Stiles turned around to look at him again, this time through decidedly different eyes. He had been so sure that young, clumsy boys with a tendency to run their mouths was Peter's type, but looking at those built shoulders and that gruff beard, maybe he was the anomaly and people who looked like they spent their spare time being sculpted into Grecian busts was Peter’s thing. He felt uncomfortably like someone was holding him upside down by the ankles and forcing him to watch the derailing of his own self-confidence. He scratched at his jaw.

"You and him," Stiles said, still waiting for the _gotcha!_ that wasn't coming. "You dated? You were together? You were _in a relationship?_ "

"Yes," Peter said.

"A _sexy_ relationship?"

Peter shrugged. Stiles didn't want shrugging, he wanted painful specificity. How long ago did this happen? Did the sight of this guy's muscular arms stir around some old feelings for Peter? Was Stiles about to become a third wheel on a long afternoon of harmless reminiscing between his boyfriend and his gorgeous ex? Dammit, he should've known not to go to the movies. No one went to the theater anymore, they just pirated new releases onto their computers and evaded the eyes of the government.

It was too late; he noticed them. As a matter of fact, he was zeroed in on Peter with the grin of a hungry lion, and he broke every rule of post-break-up-etiquette and decided to approach. Peter shot Stiles a look that seemed to say _play nice_ , which did not improve Stiles' general mood.

"Peter," the man said, with a voice like gravel and honey and sex and holy _shit_ Stiles was about to be dumped at the movies before he could even get to the popcorn.

"Jeffrey," Peter said in return.

God, what a terrible name. _Jeffrey_. Or maybe he spelled it Geoffrey, like an asshole.

"Fancy running into you here," Jeffrey said.

"I didn't know you were in town," Peter replied. "It's been a long time."

They stared at each other like they could read each other's thoughts, coy smirks tilting both of their mouths. Stiles had to do something. He couldn't stand by and watch as Jeffrey or Geoffrey or god forbid, Jefferie, swooped in and reminded Peter about all the good times they had back in their heyday. Stiles had the irrational desire to set something on fire.

"Honeybuns," Stiles said loudly, grabbing Peter's hand in both of his and tracing his knuckles. He didn't know what the fuck he was doing; he just knew he had to do it. "Do you think they'll still let us into this place after what they caught us doing last time?"

It wasn’t exactly a sexy experience. Last time, the clean-up crew caught them trying to stay behind in the theater to watch the same movie twice, but Stiles wasn't planning on sharing all those specific details. Peter was looking at him like he was deranged.

"Oh, good heavens," Stiles said, turning to Geffory, and he had no clue why he sounded like a housewife from the thirties. He was flustered, goddammit. "I didn't realize you were having a chat."

"Of course," Peter said slowly. "Jeffrey, this is Stiles."

"His boyfriend," Stiles said. He knew he sounded absurd, but he couldn't stop the words from coming out. "Lovely to meet you. Are you here for a matinee showing too?"

Gephry smiled. "I was thinking about it."

"I would ask you to join us," Stiles said, "but you might get uncomfortable. Peter can get pretty frisky in theaters."

Now they were both looking at Stiles like he was clinically insane. Stiles definitely _felt_ a little insane.

"Right," Jefri said. "It was good to see you, Peter. Perhaps I'll bump into you again before I leave town."

He gave Stiles one last look of bemusement, then turned around and headed for the parking lot instead of resuming his spot in line. Something that felt like the bubbling of victory emerged in his stomach.

"And people say I'm crazy," Peter muttered. He was looking at Stiles with what seemed to be equal parts confusion, surprise, and fondness. "Care to explain yourself?"

"Nothing to explain."

"Is that so?" Peter asked, and Stiles hated the way he did. Like he already knew all the reasons, and he just wanted to hear Stiles confirm them. Fine. If he wanted to hear Stiles admit out loud that he was jealous, he would.

"You never told me you dated Chris Hemsworth's stunt double," Stiles grumbled. "That guy was built like a fucking Spartan warrior."

There was a disgustingly wide grin on Peter's face that wasn't budging. He squeezed the hand Stiles was still gripping onto him with, yanking him closer.

"You smell delectable right now, you know that?"

"What?"

Peter leaned in and nuzzled Stiles' neck, nose brushing the spot under his ear. He breathed in. "All that jealousy."

"I'm not jealous," Stiles protested, pushing Peter back to a publicly acceptable distance before some old man at the back of the line started quacking about right and wrong and heteronormativity. "What kind of name is Jeffrey anyway? What is he, a sheep herder?"

"It's a perfectly normal name."

"It isn't," Stiles said, suddenly feeling much too worked up to sit around and enjoy two hours of watching fictional characters encounter fictional problems in a fictional world in a big, dark room. "Why didn't you tell me about him?"

"I didn't realize you wanted a crash course on my past relationships."

"I don't. Well, I do. _No_. I mean, I don't want to hear about you and Jeffrey making out in the sheep pen—"

"He's really not a sheep herder."

"—but I do want to know about the kind of people you've been with. Who broke your heart. Who popped your cherry. Who got away." He looked to the side. "You know everything about my… romantic past. Is it so bad that I'd like to know a little about yours too?"

"No," Peter said, grabbing his chin and tilting it back toward him. "Do you want to skip the movie and talk about my conquests instead?"

"Only if you don't see this as a chance to brag," Stiles said, a little suspicious that this could easily derail into an outlandishly-embellished tale of great love and loss and orgasms a plenty. "I just want to know a little."

"All right," Peter agreed.

"Maybe you could do it like a tour guide. We could go around town and you stop everywhere you have a story and narrate. 'Oh, right under that tree in the park is where I first prematurely ejaculated.' That sort of thing."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "You really think that ever happened?"

Stiles shrugged. "You tell me." He smiled, poking Peter's side. "It'd be absolutely priceless if it did."

"It didn't," Peter said.

"Oh, you take the fun out of everything." He grabbed Peter's hand, feeling a little better with Peter's palm in his for the Google Earth satellites to see, and started walking. "Come on. Let's get the tour started."

\--

By the time Stiles heads inside the club with Peter in tow, so much in tow that he might as well be glued onto his backside, Stiles is starting to wish that he won’t bump into Liam at all tonight what with the human octopus suctioned onto him like a possessive weirdo. Which is of course why the second he walks in, Liam immediately spots him, waves, and makes a beeline for him.

“Stiles! You made it!”

Liam goes in for the hug, pulling Stiles to his chest close enough that Stiles gets enveloped in what smells like one thousand dollar cologne. The entire time, Stiles feels Peter’s hand stay curled around the fabric by his back like a steady anchor keeping Stiles tethered to Peter. It makes him feel like a pet that’s well known to be a flight risk.

“Yeah! Thanks for inviting me,” Stiles says, pulling back from their hug. Next to him, Peter clears his throat. “Oh. And this is Peter.”

Peter glares at him like a lover scorned, probably because Stiles hasn’t taken the liberty to give Peter the long-winded title he wants, like My Caring, Loving, Selfless Hero of a Boyfriend Peter. 

“Nice to meet you,” Liam says, the picture of courtesy. “You guys thirsty?”

Peter stays steadfastly mute, like the very idea of talking to Liam offends him.

“Yes,” Stiles cuts in. “I’m parched.”

“I have something at the bar you’d love, Stiles,” Liam says.

“Oh?” Stiles shrugs off Peter’s protective hand on his shoulder. “I’ll meet you there in a moment.”

He waits until Liam turns away and gets swept up in the crowd to wheel on Peter.

“Don’t drink anything he gives you,” Peter advises sharply.

“Could you at least try to be civil?” Stiles is pretty sure Peter is one step away from wolfing out if Liam looks at him the wrong way. Liam’s a nice guy, and he’s got enough stress in his life that Stiles doesn’t want to introduce him into the nightmarish world of werewolves because his monster boyfriend can’t keep his proprietary need to keep Stiles freakishly close capped. He has a _list_ , an approved list. He went through multiple drafts.

“Civility is weakness in practice,” Peter grits out, and that’s it, Stiles can’t work with this level of insanity.

“I’m getting a drink,” Stiles says, giving up. “Go practice your meditative breathing.”

He leaves Peter sour and grumpy by the door without remorse. This is not the kind of place to slump and grouch and brood in a corner; it's the kind of place with flashing disco lights and Pitbull remixes and people dancing with enough energy to power the entire town. Limbs are flying and people are laughing and the thump of music is coming from all angles, up, around, below Stiles' feet, and Stiles isn’t going to spend his evening trying to get Peter to loosen up. It's a cool spot to be on a Friday night. With a mega popular boybander.

He slips into the throng of moving bodies until he’s pushed his way over to the bar. He spots Liam’s snapback easily, the slope of his back as he arches over the bar. Stiles taps him on the shoulder.

“Is this where the libations are?”

Liam grins and hands him a brilliantly blue drink, the color of a sloshing pool in the summer. He leans in to make his voice heard over the noisy swell of the crowd pulsing with the music, and says, “Do you like mint?”

Stiles doesn’t. He’s always thought that if he wanted to enjoy the taste of peppermint, he’d eat toothpaste. He bites that back and instead says, “Yes!”

Liam taps the side of his glass. “You’ll love this.”

He follows Liam’s lead and knocks it out at the same time as he does, trying not to taste as he swallows. It’s like drinking mouthwash, really, except now there’s alcohol burning his throat and it would probably be strange if he spit it out into the nearest sink. He smacks his lips, grimacing, and when he looks up, Liam’s smiling and tilting in closer to speak straight into Stiles’ ear.

“Are you with that guy you came with?”

Stiles can only imagine how amplified his blush is under those strobe lights. “Oh. Uh. Yeah.”

“Is that why he was looking at me like he wanted to throw me into the trunk of someone’s car?”

Liam’s voice is like velvet this close to his ear. Stiles can see the stubbled arch of his neck from up close here, even the line of his collarbone from where his shirt has slipped down. That cocktail feels like it’s trying to climb back out his throat.

“He’s harmless,” Stiles lies. “Just weirdly protective.”

“Okay.” Liam’s lips brush against his earlobe as he chuckles. Stiles can’t believe this is happening. No part of him understands that this—a universe where Liam Payne is blatantly hitting on him—is the real world. “And what would he say about you standing over here with me?”

“We have a list,” Stiles says. “You know. People we’re allowed to sleep with.”

“And I’m on yours?”

“Well, duh,” Stiles replies, and there’s that low, alluring chuckle again. “Peter wanted me to bump you, but I think he thought there’s no way I’d ever actually have a chance with you.”

Liam pulls back from his ear. He’s still smiling.

“I’d say you have a chance.” His hand slides on Stiles’ leg, right above his knee. “Do you want to dance?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says.

Liam winds their hands together and bounces off the stool, pulling Stiles into the crowd. People bump into him from left and right, and as they worm their way through, a few people seem to notice who it is Stiles is attached to, some murmuring, some shrieking, some running up and demanding autographs. Stiles has no idea what to do while it all happens, and he stands behind Liam amid the sweaty girls all begging for pictures like a First Lady, a few feet away but completely silent, unsure of himself and what to do except for bop in place while Liam hugs fans and takes selfies. By the time the crowd has dispersed, Stiles is really wishing he had a few snacks around to occupy himself with and to wash that cool minty flavor off his tongue, thoughts that only distract him until Liam is back front and center, still smiling, and grabs Stiles by the waist, pulling him close just as a fast-paced remix filters through the speakers.

"Sorry about that. Never really get used to it," Liam says over the noise. "Ought to bring a bigger hat next time."

"You think that'll fool people?" Stiles shouts back.

Liam grins. "Maybe I just like hats."

He seizes Stiles' wrist and lifts it over their heads, twisting until Stiles gets the hint and spins, bumping into a few other dancers as he goes, that drink swaying the room long after he's done spinning. Liam dances with no finesse, no real rhythm, but it hardly matters, not when Stiles isn't here for a ballroom dance lesson, but for the experience, the bragging rights. The unbelievable story that'll come with all of it.

"You and that guy," Liam says, hips swinging left and right, feet moving, shoulders rolling. The only part that isn't a hot mess is Liam’s hands, the way he's holding onto Stiles, how he's curled his palms around his waist and gently squeezes now and then just so. "You're really together?"

"Yeah," Stiles tells him, a funny feeling in his chest. Now and again it hits him, mostly when people shoot disdainful looks in his and Peter's direction, usually always combatted in the best of ways by Peter yanking Stiles into a thorough kiss and swallowing that weird feeling straight out Stiles' throat. He's tried to place it a few times, finally comprehending what it means when it's twisting in his belly: realizing that strangers are disapproving, frowning upon, and even just not understanding his relationship. One's too old, one's too loud, one just doesn't look right next to the other. And that's just the tip of the iceberg since the people who actually aren't strangers to them are privy to a whole different set of reasons as to why they shouldn't work together: one has a tendency for scheming and murder, one has grown up in a law enforcement household, one is an aggressive werewolf, one is pathetically human.

"I don't see it," Liam says, like the very idea of them together confuses him.

"Uh, I'm not lying?"

"No, I'm not saying you were," Liam says quickly. He leans in closer, close enough for Stiles to count every ridiculously white tooth in his mouth, to smell that mintiness still there. He smiles at Stiles like he's sharing a secret. "Guess it just doesn't make sense to me. I just don't see you two—that way."

You and about five hundred other people, Stiles thinks dryly. Hell, that list used to include himself. He was steadfastly against sleeping with Peter when it was first offered to him, and then he was steadfastly against being with him, and then steadfastly against loving him. Not that any of those mental blocks ever really ended up being obstacles.

Before Stiles can say anything—and fuck, what is he even supposed to say when the guy he came here with the full intention to seduce insults his existing relationship? Defend his boyfriend and continue chasing that dick in front of him?—Liam pulls Stiles even closer and slides his hand under Stiles' shirt, touching the dip in his back. Stiles is frozen, unbelieving that this is happening, even more unbelieving that Peter hasn’t showed up yet to glue himself to Stiles’ back.

“Hey, as long as he’s okay with me being here with you,” Liam says, winking, “I’m not judging.”

His hands drift lower, brushing over the waistband of Stiles’ jeans. Something about the touch starts up mental alarm bells that screech at him like ambulance sirens. Stiles’ brain whirls within his skull like a spinning top, ready to fling off into the clouds with the slightest nudge, and some ridiculous, cock-blocking impulse urges him to back up.

“I just need the bathroom really fast.”

He gives Liam a quick smile, pushing the crowd aside and running to the restrooms like a drunkard about to throw up his fifth tequila shot. It’s quiet in the bathroom, which at least gives him a chance to hear his own thoughts as he locks himself into a stall. The bit of his spine Liam touched is burning.

What the fuck is he doing? He and Peter have an agreement, they have _lists_. Why did he bolt from that dance floor like a twelve-year-old on his first date? Why is he feeling guilty and nauseous and like a dirty old cheat? Is it because he hates to think about Peter in a reversed role situation, flirting with Justin Bieber somewhere and successfully laying the moves on him? This is _stupid_. Liam fucking Payne was just feeling him up and Stiles _ran away_.

He sits down and plays with the toilet roll for a while, sliding it up, poking it down, trying to collect his thoughts, and that’s when someone jiggles the stall door like all the others aren’t free and ready for use. Stiles perks up and gently kicks the door to make it clear it’s occupied.

“Someone’s in here.”

The door jiggles again. “I know. Let me in,” Peter says.

Stiles sighs. “Oh boy.”

He opens the door and waits for what he expects: Peter’s murderous face contorted into something ugly and jealous, or worst case scenario, Peter’s blood-stained shirt and Liam’s organs under his claws. Instead, he looks awfully urgent, almost concerned.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks.

“Don’t do it,” Peter says. “Don’t go home with him.”

“For the love of—we’re just talking.”

“I heard him. I could smell his want all the way across the bar.”

“How on earth could you single out _his scent_ in particular with all of these horny dirty dancers out on that floor around us?”

“I could,” Peter insists. “Don’t go with him.”

Stiles gets up from the toilet. “Why?”

Peter’s jaw slots left and right, like he’s grinding his teeth. “Because I don’t you want you to.”

Stiles lets a breath out through his nostrils. Peter’s like a fucking vice grip on his ankle, always there, always refusing to let out a little bit of wiggle room. It doesn’t matter if it’s Liam Payne, a guy at the supermarket, or a married lesbian chatting with Stiles about what brand of ice tea is best to buy, Peter can’t stand it. It’s like he’s not programmed to understand that a person can have multiple interactions with multiple people and that someone batting his eyelashes at Stiles doesn’t mean the end of their absurd, ludicrous relationship. All the conflicted emotion in Stiles’ stomach is tornadoing together into an angry, misguided storm.

“I can’t believe you,” Stiles grits out. “You and your jealousy—it’s not cute. It’s stupid. You smother me every chance you get because you’re—I don’t know? Insecure? And you even fucking told me you weren't jealous, you bastard."

Peter's still sliding his teeth together, the sound of it horrible. "It isn't insecurity."

"Of course it is. You think I'm going to leave you at any moment because I’m just that flaky, or that someone's going to steal me away, or that I just don't have the attention span for a long term relationship? I don't know. It's out of hand and it's starting to get insulting."

"I don't think that," Peter insists.

"And it's not like I never get jealous," Stiles says, finding it all too easy to get mad right now and to dump it all out on Peter. "I do. But I deal with it like an adult and keep it to myself and ignore it because I know we're not—this isn't some fling. This is a real relationship and real relationships let people _breathe_ and you." Stiles stops himself, inhaling. "You haven't let me breathe in ages."

The words he's saying, they sound worse than what he's meaning to. It's like there's some dam of rage breaking open inside of him and now it's coming out, every single time Stiles clenched his fists because a waitress was giggling at Peter, every time Peter's mood took a downturn because somebody came in a five foot radius of Stiles, every time he had to stop and consider what it would be like if one of them fell in love with somebody else and just—left. Recycled all that affection and love and familiarity and used it with someone new. It feels like a flood inside his ribcage, and he suddenly can’t be here looking Peter in the face anymore.

"I have to go back out there," Stiles says, rubbing his temples. His head is pounding. "Liam's waiting for me."

He feels like it's a mistake, heading back out there and looking for Liam, but he also feels like it's a mistake to stay here under Peter's judgmental eyes. He came in here for peace, for a second to think in the quiet of a bathroom stall where there wouldn't be noise or distractions, but nothing with Peter is ever peaceful. _Peter_ isn't peaceful. He's the type of person who chases after Stiles when he needs silence and refuses to give it to him.

"Stiles," Peter says.

"Later, okay?" Stiles says, pushing past him, and Peter could've refused to move and blocked the exit, but he lets Stiles shove him aside, which is somehow more annoying than it is anything else.

\--

There was one time, deep in Stiles’ repressed memories, when Stiles was the very thing he was chastising Peter for being: an unthinkingly, unexplainably, unreasonably jealous loon.

The worst part is that they weren’t even together yet, weren’t even _sleeping together_ yet, and somewhere deep in the pits of what Stiles can only assume was the budding start of his attraction to Peter reared its ugly, monstrous head right in the middle of a restaurant.

It happened like this. They were all out celebrating another week without a hospital visit, or even better, morgue visit, after managing to successfully get Isaac out of trouble with some less than friendly wendigos he had inadvertently crossed paths with. What had begun as Stiles and Scott planning on stopping by Dairy Queen on the way home for some celebratory hot dogs quickly became a whole bunch of them heading out to that newly-opened Spanish restaurant downtown, and they ended up cramped in what felt like the last table available in the entire place, everybody nearly on top of each other’s laps, and Stiles had ended up wedged between Scott and Peter with little breathing room for himself.

It was a fun evening, at first. Seeing Peter doing something as benign as eating grilled potatoes felt almost surreal, not to mention the fact that he got along with everybody at the table for the handful of hours they were there. It was strange; it was like all of them were friends, at least for that evening, and sitting next to Peter, close enough to count every single fleck of stubble on his cheek, made it that much stranger.

But it was nice. Stiles started sneaking Peter's fries over onto his plate, and Peter would try and steal them back, and all of it felt very... easy. Even Derek was laughing here and there. Even Lydia was. It was great, right up until Lyle the waiter entered the equation.

Stiles had never seen anyone flirt with Peter before in his life. Up until that night, he wouldn't have even been able to imagine it, but then along came Lyle with his crooked nametag and ne'er-do-well smile and sideswept hair, providing Stiles with all the proof he needed that Peter was, apparently, desirable to some people.

It was the first night he'd ever stopped to notice how attractive Peter really was. He may have realized in passing in past, but never really _thought about it_ , not until Lyle scooted up and told Peter that his gym routine was _clearly_ paying off. It made him reevaluate Peter, take a look at him with unbiased eyes that didn’t know about all the manipulating and murdering, and what he ended up seeing was a pretty hot guy who knew how to dress himself. It would've been a disconcerting realization to digest had he not been so distracted by Lyle's frothing at the mouth over Peter's this and that. What he ordered. What shirt he was wearing. What razor he used to trim his facial hair.

It was like a chemical reaction in Stiles' brain, like someone had tipped over a volatile substance Stiles didn't even know he had stored away in his body that triggered a sudden, unexplainable irritation at being at that table, witnessing that unbelievably unsubtle flirting Lyle the server was throwing in Peter's direction. He couldn't explain it, not then, not weeks later, but Stiles snapped.

"Excuse me, some of us are waiting for refills," Stiles said loudly over Lyle's admiration of Peter's bravery to choose such a deep vee. "So maybe you ought to spend more time doing your job and less time flirting with the customers."

The second it left his mouth, he heard how terrible it sounded. Derek was looking at him from across the table like he was a disgusting toddler throwing food at the walls. Peter was looking at him with thinly bridled surprise in his eyes. Down the table, Isaac was snickering.

"Thank you for protecting my honor," Peter replied, sending Stiles further into the darkest, itchiest blush to ever have graced his cheeks. "But it's not necessary."

"He was just—unbelievable, that's all," Stiles said hotly, trying to tuck strands of hair not nearly long enough to tuck anywhere behind his ear. "I mean—that was just shameless. Didn't anybody else notice?"

Somebody kicked him under the table—he assumed Isaac from the look on his face alone—that he successfully interpreted as a suggestion to stop talking.

It started to get embarrassing very quickly. Everybody was staring at him like he was spewing the word of Satan until finally, Stiles dealt with the situation the best way he could: removing himself from it. He got up from the table and hustled over to the bathroom, whereupon he of course ran straight into Lyle and nearly sent his tray of ice tea flying.

"You," Stiles said, having seen just about enough of this guy for one evening. What kind of kid his age flirted with someone like Peter? Actually, scratch that, what kind of person _period_ flirted with Peter? "You're just everywhere, aren't you?"

Lyle gave him a funny look. "Table six, right?" he asked. 

"Yeah. The one with the guy you were throwing yourself over." He took a step closer, suddenly finding it necessary to intervene even though he left the table for all intents and purposes to separate himself from this madness. "He's dangerous, all right?"

Lyle seemed more confused than anything else. "The hot guy at your table?"

It was bizarre, hearing someone refer to Peter as _hot_ , and what was yet more bizarre was that Stiles found he couldn't disagree. He wasn't hot like a girl was hot, but he was hot in the way intense looks and muscled shoulders and deep voices were, and yeah, people who were unaware of his homicidal past probably only saw the pretty picture on the outside.

"Forget about it," Stiles said. "He's complicated and shady. You'll be doing yourself a favor if you stay away from him."

Lyle's confusion didn't seem to be dissipating, right up until a sudden light of understanding passed over his expression. "I get it. You two are..." He held up two fingers, wrapping them around each other. "Right?"

Stiles stared at his looped fingers, mortified. "No! I'm just—no! I'm giving you friendly advice."

Lyle sighed. He seemed to be getting tired of standing around holding up a heavy tray full of ice tea listening to the inane ramblings of a kid warning him off a guy who was falsely advertising himself as handsome and innocent, and he readjusted his tray slowly. 

"Listen, it's fine. This is California. You might as well be honest about it, nobody's judging."

"But we're really not," Stiles started hopefully.

"Thanks for the chat, but I really have to get back to work," Lyle told him, whisking himself and his tray away and leaving Stiles to stammer at a wall.

He came back to the table feeling more humiliated than when he had left it, considering he had left the table to compose himself and somehow instead ended up making the situation worse by convincing the wait staff that he and Peter were romantically involved. All he could hope was that nobody had their paranormal ears zoned in on that particular conversation and was now drawing the same unfortunate conclusion Lyle had that something was going on between Stiles and Peter. There wasn't, for god's sake. If anything, Stiles just wanted to protect a harmless citizen from dating a sociopath. It was an act of community service more than anything else.

"Off threatening our waiter?" Peter asked when Stiles sat back down and scooted up to the table.

Oh god, of course he was listening in. "What?" Stiles asked, refusing to admit to anything, especially chatting with people about the nature of his and Peter's relationship. Hell, relationship was too loaded a word. _Begrudging acquaintanceship_. "No. Why would you even say that?"

"I was joking," Peter said dryly. "Your sense of humor is really fading fast, isn't it?"

He didn't even know what to say. The entire evening was already overwhelming. There was all that life-saving and rushing adrenaline to start out with, and then there was accidentally convincing people that he had the hots for Peter, and now there was the horror of realizing that Peter actually _was_ a good looking guy with a body to drink in slowly, and all together, he felt a little dizzy. What was he supposed to do now? Ask Peter to go into the kitchen and loudly declare to the waiters that he and Stiles weren't an item just to clear up any confusion? Make it clear to everybody at the table that Stiles' little outburst wasn't a result of rambling, wild envy?

He sat there and ate his food in silence the rest of the evening, refusing to risk saying more ludicrous things on accident and having the entire table regard him like an alter ego of himself. He could feel Peter's eyes on him the whole time, probing, judging, coming to incorrect conclusions, and he wanted more than anything to catapult his food into Peter's lap to put a stop to the staring.

Lyle didn't come back to their table, which oddly enough, made the entire situation worse. Like Stiles had cornered him in the restroom with a fork in hand and told him to scram, which Stiles was pretty sure the entire table already assumed anyway, a rumor given credence when a chipper, polite waitress came by to drop off the check and top off their drinks instead of flirtatious Lyle.

If he only knew _why_ he did any of that, maybe he wouldn't feel so much like he wanted to shrink down and disappear inside his hoodie. It had just slipped out of him, and it didn't have anything to do with warning innocent civilians off Peter for their own safety. He just had no clue what it _did_ have to do with.

He had to say something. Apologize, make it clear that this was a one-time-only occurrence, that Stiles wasn't secretly harboring some gigantic crush on Peter and was lashing out against the competition. The very idea of saying he was sorry to Peter gave him a full-body shiver, but in this case, it felt necessary.

They all finished up their food and piled bills together in the center of the table, and just as everybody was slipping into their jackets and heading for the door, Stiles grabbed the only moment of privacy he saw and reached out. He snagged Peter's wrist as he got to his feet, drawing him back for a moment. 

"I'm sorry about tonight," Stiles said, perfectly aware that he was bright red in the face as he spoke. "If you want to go take that waiter back to your evil cave, you should."

Peter frowned. "Evil cave?" He shook his head, turning to face Stiles. "I'm not interested in our waiter. Were you?"

"What? No. This wasn't—this wasn't some weird jealousy thing." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know where any of it came from. Can we just—forget it happened if I promise to stop interfering with people who hit on you? Even if I am doing them a huge favor?"

Peter was staring at him like no, it would not be forgotten, which was not what Stiles wanted. It was like something had shifted in the world's atmosphere tonight, like the dimensions of the universe were off, and somehow, it had affected Stiles' sanity. It hadn't meant anything, and Stiles was sure of it. He wanted to be sure of it.

"I swear," Stiles said, holding his hand out, offering his word. "Your love life is not my business, and I like it that way."

Peter looked at his proffered hand. He was smiling, like he knew something Stiles didn't, like he didn't quite believe him. Whatever, he was _wrong_. None of this meant anything. He needed to go home and take a shower and wash this entire evening off his skin.

"I should really make you earn my forgiveness," Peter said, "but all right."

He took Stiles' hand, shaking it. His palm was warm and broad and quite frankly, Stiles didn't even want to be seen touching Peter right now, let alone thinking about the firmness of his hand, but he went with it like a sane, courteous, unaffected individual would and returned the handshake. He also made a mental note to never eat out with Peter again.

\--

His introspective break in a toilet stall interrupted, Stiles ends up finishing up his thinking in the only quiet spot in the entire club: a shady corner by the back room. He watches employees come in and out with their arms full of liquor bottles, ready to refill drinks and intoxicate many a customer, Stiles wishing all the while that he could be as carefree as all the drunkards out there gleefully dancing to Cascada while chugging vodka sodas. It would be nice if his life was a bit simpler, but it never is. Ever since high school, simplicity just doesn’t exist in his world anymore. There's always something, like bad guys or death or jealous boyfriends who can't seem to let go.

It isn't helping that Stiles knows he was out of line back in the bathroom, being unnecessarily mean for no reason at all except to maybe push a few buttons. He shouldn't have said all those things, and he shouldn't have stormed out, and he probably shouldn't be hanging out in a bar about to go entertain a frisky gentleman after snubbing his boyfriend, but all Stiles seems to do lately is make bad choices.

He rubs his hands over his face. Peter's never made him feel smothered or tied down or caged up like Stiles said. Peter hasn't been the leash keeping Stiles from pursuing all the suitors lined up at his door. Why did he tell him that? Why did he tell Peter he's too jealous and too possessive when all he's ever been is protective and proud of his boyfriend and hell, Stiles has always thought it was pretty damn flattering? Why did he ever agree to come here in the first place?

He feels like he's had about twenty more drinks than he actually has, all of them swaying his world and narrowing the walls and confusing the hell out of him. The longer he stands here watching bottles of fresh booze march out of the back door, the more absurd it seems that he's here to cheat on his boyfriend because a handmade list of celebrities with admittedly questionable sexual prowess says he can.

He needs fresh air.

Stiles walks out of the safety of his corner with the full intention of finding an exit and taking in some cool, crisp breaths somewhere where techno-pop isn't blaring overhead too loudly for his brain to hear itself, and he's halfway to a door when a familiar face pops out of the crowd, calling Stiles' name.

How is it that Stiles went so long without ever running into a single One Direction member, and now he can't seem to shake one.

“There you are!” Liam says, sidling close to him. “I’ve been looking for you.” He smiles that blinding grin again and Stiles is almost momentarily dazzled just like before. “Do you want to get out of here?”

Stiles looks at Liam under the daze of the lights with that sheen of sweat on his forehead and bright happy eyes and hands that have probably never killed anyone before. It would be so easy, it would probably even be nice.

He sighs.

“Listen, Liam,” Stiles starts, and is about to open his mouth to keep talking when Liam swoops in and kisses him.

The first thing his brain registers is _holy shit, Liam Payne is kissing me_ , and the second is something that just sounds like loud, high-pitched alarm bells like something in his brain just pulled a fire alarm and now there's panic everywhere. All he knows is that this feels wrong and weird and that Liam's lips aren't the right lips, too big and too soft and too unfamiliar with how Stiles likes being kissed, and the rim of his hat is digging into Stiles' forehead and nothing about this is working for him.

He pulls away with the speed of a little boy afraid of cooties, jerking back so fast he nearly trips over himself. Liam's lips were very, very minty and Stiles just wants to grab his sleeve and wipe his mouth down, but he's aware of how terrible that would look, so he steadfastly ignores that urge.

It's just not right, and it doesn't matter who kisses him, even if it's Leonardo DiCaprio, it won't feel right unless it's Peter. Anything else, anybody else, it just feels like cheating and lying and opening somebody else's Christmas present when you already have your own gift, which is already fantastic and wonderful and a really, really good kisser. Stiles can’t believe he’s at a point in his life where he thinks any of this about _Peter Hale_ , but yeah, that’s where he’s at.

Liam touches his arm, reminding Stiles of the reality of what just happened. Holy shit, if this becomes the focal point of a song on the next album, Stiles is going to lose his shit. Track title: _Small Town Boy_ , written by Liam Payne, with lyrics like _oh, how could you have left me on that dance floor_ and _when it rains I still think about those purple jeans_.

"Are you okay?" Liam asks.

"Uh," Stiles says. "Yes, but, uh. I was sort of starting to say something earlier." Right. He was in the middle of rejecting him. "Listen. You’re really hot and interesting and have pretty much the whole package and then some, but—I can’t go home with you tonight. Or any other night, really.”

Liam’s face falls, and Stiles would almost feel bad about rejecting the multimillionaire popstar if he wouldn’t be sure that he has plenty of ways to soothe the pain. Like buying a Maserati, or renting out Switzerland for the night.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Stiles says. “I don’t want to—” He’s about to say _upset Peter_ when he realize that isn’t even true. It isn’t about Peter; it’s about himself. “—I don’t’ want to be with anyone but my boyfriend. And I know you think we aren’t good together or we don’t make sense, but—well. I don’t even know how to say this, but our relationship used to be so much weirder.” Running from Peter’s wolfed out self while he was trapped in school comes to mind. Helping throw Molotov cocktails at him also comes to mind. “And it’s pretty good now.” He thinks of Peter looking at him in that bathroom. “And we’re good together, even if you can’t see it.”

“I thought you guys had a list.”

“We do. But—well. That’s kind of stupid, isn’t it?” Stiles scratches his head. “I mean, if you're really happy with someone, you're not thinking about anyone else. Even someone like you."

_I'm happy_ , Stiles thinks, and feels that reverberate through his bones. _I'm really happy_.

"Wow. I suppose—that's fine, I suppose," Liam says. He clearly doesn't hear no very often and Stiles hopes, as ridiculous as it is, that maybe this is even a learning experience for him too. He's not sure what he possibly could've learned, but it'd be nice if this could be wrapped up all after-school-special-like for everyone involved. "I suppose I've never felt that connected with someone before."

"Um." Stiles scratches the back of his neck. "Just... hang in there?" He doesn't feel the least bit qualified to give romantic advice, but here it is, sliding uncomfortably out of his mouth. "The right person will come out of the woodwork any day now."

Liam nods, even if his eyebrows are still ruffled together and are making him look like a sad puppy. Stiles wonders if asking for an autograph would feel a little crass right now, but this crazy encounter's reaching its end Stiles has absolutely nothing to show for it. Who the hell is going to believe him when he tells people that he made out with Liam Payne and then, better yet for some unknown reason, got to reject him afterwards? His father certainly won't. Lydia's going to laugh in his face.

"Listen, if you decide to use this all as inspiration for a song," Stiles says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Can you do me a favor and not mention my bad dancing?" He wonders if asking Liam to mention that he was hot and charming would be pushing it. Yes, yes, it probably would be.

He walks away after that, hardly even believing that his legs are doing so. He doesn't even turn around to get one last wistful look at Liam's backside and think of what could have been; instead he focuses on what’s important. Finding Peter.

\--

He looks around the club for a long time, trying to spot Peter amidst all the hullabaloo. The people around him have no sympathy for his plight, jumping around and dancing like animals while Stiles tries to scoot past them without being accidentally knocked to the floor. It gets harder the longer he looks, the flashing lights starting to sting his eyes and the heat of the club making him sweat, and a good twenty minutes pass with no luck before Stiles starts to wonder if Peter's jumped ship and gone home.

That opens a bit of a can of worms, because all Stiles can think about when he imagines Peter back at home is him sitting around thinking about how much better somebody other than Stiles would treat him. Peter likes being spoiled, like lots of birthday presents and getting blowjobs just for the hell of it and being cooked for, and trying to sleep with another guy after Peter asked him not to feels like the complete opposite of spoiling someone. More like making them think long and hard about if they should call up buff spunky friends like good ol' Jeffrey.

Fuck, Stiles needs to find him _now_. He's pretty sure the longer he waits, the more mouth-watering muscle mass Jeffrey gains.

He ends up showing selfies Peter took on his phone to all three bouncers, the bartender, and the security guard letting people in at the front door, and not one of them has any helpful information to give. Not even a vague point in an ambiguous direction and a _I think he went that way_ to help him. All the moving around hither and thither seems to attract attention his way, and next thing he knows, people are trying to pull him into dances and whisper in his ear and proffer free drinks, which is not the kind of distraction Stiles needs right now.

He shakes his suitors—honestly, is there something in the fucking water—off and tries to find a sanctuary where he won't get hit on and twerked against, which turns out to be pretty much nowhere, so he takes refuge outside the club. There's a door near the back that he aims toward, where if nothing else, he can at least catch some fresh air and call Peter's phone somewhere it's quiet enough to actually hear the ringing.

He steps outside, the sudden silence and missing stench of sweat almost like stepping into a new world. His ears are just starting to ring from the lack of noise and deep bass beat when he notices that someone familiar is lounging against the wall by the dumpster where trash bags of vodka bottles are overflowing over the sides, someone who he just happens to have been looking for for the last hour.

"Dear god, _finally_ ," Stiles breathes in relief. "I was looking for you. I was afraid you left."

Peter scuffs the sole of his shoe from left to right. "I didn't."

He doesn't sound nearly as relieved to have found Stiles as Stiles is to have found Peter. As a matter of fact, he sounds rather discouraged. A little flat around the edges. Like a teenager who is mentally listening to Avril Lavigne to heal the pain because their prom invite just got rejected.

Stiles steps up to him. "Hey. Quit brooding. You look like you belong in a Sarah MacLachlan music video."

"I'm not brooding."

"Come on. I know you pretty well." Stiles gesticulates to Peter leaning against the dumpster with a doubtful chuckle. "What would you call this then?"

"Grabbing fresh air," Peter says, but his eyebrow is twitching, and Stiles knows what that means. 

He steps closer. He feels a little silly now, and wonders why he didn't feel silly earlier, all wrapped up in celebrity-tinted goggles and fantasies of sexually wowing someone on his coveted list. He can't even imagine being on the opposite end of this ordeal, standing in a bar watching Peter laugh and drink and dance with someone who could replace him, who could be better than him. Stiles doesn't know if Peter has any insecurities about their relationship like Stiles does, if he ever looks in the mirror and wonders if he's handsome enough, or young enough, or interesting enough, and if he isn't, if someone who is enough will one day swoop in and blindside him. Stiles knows how much those thoughts sting.

"I'm not going anywhere with Liam. I, uh. Told him I wasn't interested."

Peter chin jerks sharply two inches to the left, just enough to catch a quick glimpse of Stiles' face, possibly to see how earnest his expression is. "Why?"

"Because I never should've agreed to come with him to this bar in the first place," Stiles says, then realizes that what Peter presumably wants to hear has nothing to do with Liam, but rather himself. Like lots and lots of praise and reassurance and affection. "Because you're the only one I want." A hint of a smile creeps up Peter's face, which is like a compass telling him he's headed in the right direction. "And I don't need a list to fulfill some weird fantasy I have when I already have you."

"Is that so?"

“Yeah. And I’m sorry if I made you feel… I don’t know. Subpar.” Although, really, _Liam Payne_. He’s pretty sure everybody feels subpar around Liam Payne. “To be honest, I’m sort of flattered that you’re always getting so jealous over me. Nobody’s ever been that… scared of me losing me, I guess.” To another person, in this case, not to the mortal coils of death. "And I shouldn't be so hard on you about it because I get jealous too. All the time. It actually kind of kills me to think about you leaving me because I'm—I'm not good enough, or something."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because—I don't know," Stiles says. He throws his hands in the air, fighting to explain himself properly. "Maybe because us being together feels like some weird experiment the universe is doing. Because it's just so damn weird to think about us being in a relationship and it actually working. I mean—haven't you ever had anyone tell you that we don't look like we fit?"

"Not really," Peter says. "Have you?"

"Uh, yeah."

"And do you agree?"

"No. I think we fit kinda nicely," Stiles says, shuffling his feet. And he should know, he's the one up close and personal with this relationship. Nobody else is really qualified to make assumptions, and it frustrates Stiles that somehow total strangers have managed to plant seeds of doubt in Stiles' mind that his relationship won't work out. "The whole point is, I know you're not gonna randomly leave me for somebody else. But jealousy isn't always some rational thing. Which is probably why you asked to come here with me tonight even though you knew it wouldn't be fun to watch me hit on some hot, rich, funny guy with a British accent to die for."

Peter doesn't say anything. Either he's silently stewing in Stiles' words or he's starting to get seriously annoyed with Stiles repeatedly bringing up Liam's good qualities, but the complete silence is making Stiles feel like he's in the doghouse no matter what. He looks at his shoes, at the tiny rocks of crumbled asphalt around it good for kicking around.

"Are you angry?" Stiles asks. "I get it if you want to be mad at me for a while." Stiles scratches his neck. "But not too long. Just a reasonable amount of time."

"I'm not angry," Peter replies. He waits a moment. "What would you do for me if I was?"

"Uh. Apologize again?"

"Hmm."

"Offer massages?"

"Getting better."

"Put on some George Michael and strip for you tonight?"

"Come here," Peter says, grabbing Stiles by a fistful of his shirt and hauling him closer. He stumbles against his chest, grinning, and lets Peter kiss him with the vigor of the remnants of his jealousy. It feels a little desperate and needy, Peter’s teeth sinking into Stiles’ lower lip, and it manages to bring Stiles to half-mast in a matter of seconds. When he pulls back, Peter's frowning.

"What's wrong?"

"You taste like peppermint," Peter says. "You hate peppermint. You think it's like eating toothpaste."

A warm rush washes over Stiles completely opposite of the uncomfortable wave that came with swallowing down that drink earlier. Celebrity encounters might be nice but this, _this_ , having someone who knows about all the things you love and hate and choosing to remember them, that's even nicer. Stiles curls his hands around Peter's jacket and sighs, feeling inexplicably at home. Even here, by this giant dumpster.

"It's true," Stiles says. "Can we get something to eat? Something to get this taste out of my mouth?" 

He wraps an arm around Peter's middle, and then promptly realizes there's something stuck in the waistband of his pants right by the small of his back. It's cold and clunky and shaped suspiciously like—

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Stiles says, yanking the shears out from Peter's pants. "What were you gonna do, cut off his fucking head right there in the club? Or, oh my god, were you gonna castrate him?"

"For fuck's sake," Peter groans, taking them back. The subtle shine of the nearest streetlamp gives light to the embarrassed blush on Peter's cheeks, which is oddly reassuring to see. Maybe what all this boils down to is that Peter experiences human emotion, from envy to anger to humiliation at being caught trying to behead an innocent man out of rage. "I was going to use it on his car."

"Seriously? Like that's any better?"

"I would definitely say so, yes."

"He has guards. He has drivers. He has handlers. Some creepy guy approaching his limo with a pair of scissors would get thrown to the ground in a second."

"It wasn't about the vandalism," Peter defends. "It was about starting a stir. Getting him to leave. So he would have to attend to his car and the multiple bodyguards I obviously would've left completely obliterated in my wake."

"You're so—" Stiles stops, wondering if there's one word that rolls cocky and unbelievable and selfish and arrogant and incorrigible all into one neat descriptor. "You're lucky I put up with you. Why even use garden shears, for christ's sake? You've got perfectly good garden shears at the end of each finger."

"That would've made it obvious it was me."

"Oh, and otherwise it would've been a complete mystery?" Stiles huffs. How Peter can be so smart sometimes and so out of his mind the rest of the time is the real unsolvable question here. Maybe it all has something to do with Stiles. Maybe Stiles just takes Peter and shakes him up and robs him of his common sense. It's almost flattering.

He snatches the shears back out of Peter's hands, using his momentary upper hand to toss them into the dumpster. Peter does no yard work; those shears' only purpose was for intimidation and petty crime. Stiles did the world a favor by getting those away from people like Peter.

"All right, no more lists," Stiles says, looping his arm back around Peter and pulling him slowly out of the alley. "I'd hate to think what other household objects you'd use as weapons if I ran off with another guy on my list."

"Well. I can think of a few objects I'd consider using on Leonardo DiCaprio if he came around."

Stiles laughs, squeezing Peter's side. "What are you thinking? A rake?"

"Perhaps a teapot." 

"I already feel bad for the poor sucker."

"You better," Peter says, like that's a promise. He stops, stilling. "Wait."

Peter suddenly resists Stiles' tugging, scanning the area around them. He pulls him back where they came from, deeper into the alley right behind the shadows of the dumpster, and crowds them both behind its concealment. It doesn't exactly smell or look like the Ritz back here, but there's something hungry and playful in Peter's eyes that's very quickly making him forget the stench and even the overflowing bags of trash peeking out of the dumpster. Peter's hands slip around his hips, finding the fastening of Stiles' belt.

"What—what the hell are you doing?"

Peter grins. He undoes Stiles' belt and unzips his pants, going in a direction Stiles is all too familiar with, except it's never a path explored in public, or this pseudo-public that exists in the shadows behind the bar. Peter pulls Stiles' boxers down, looks up and winks at him like the lewd, perverted man he is.

"Just in case your friend Liam goes looking for you."

"Oh my god, he won't come looking for me out here, but that won't stop other people from coming out here, you freak—ohhh, holy shit."

His well-meaning words get cut off as Peter wraps his lips around Stiles' cock and sucks, and either it's that shot Stiles had or all the residual jealousy still seizing Peter by the heart telling him to prove himself to be better than boyband popstar Liam Payne, but Stiles swears that this is the best blowjob he's ever had if only because of the enthusiasm Peter's delivering to the task alone. He groans, already losing his aversion to the idea of getting sucked off behind a bar next to a dumpster, and lets his head fall against the rough wall, trying to mentally file through the Blowjob Database of his sexual history and see if anything was ever as good as this here and now, Peter circling and twisting his tongue just right and making all these hungry noises like he has a PhD in getting Stiles off. There was that one time Peter gave him a birthday blowjob in the bathroom in the middle of his party, and that was pretty damn spectacular, and then there was that blowjob he got as a reward for making Peter dinner that even featured a complementary wine, and then there was that one early morning blowjob he gave Stiles on a chilly February morning that was just indescribably good, but this one—this one takes the cake.

"Is this you—ah—marking your territory?" Stiles asks, reaching helplessly for something to hold onto and finding Peter's head.

Peter briefly pulls off of Stiles to answer, his lips shining in the glow of the streetlamp. "More like reminding you of who you belong to," he says, then sucks Stiles straight back down to his throat.

"Who—who I belong to," Stiles repeats, on the verge of simultaneously laughing and cursing thanks to Peter's extremely handy ability to control his gag reflex. "That's so primordial. I'm not—jesus, right there—something you own."

Peter pulls back to slowly drag his tongue down the length of Stiles' erection. Why is he so unfairly good at this, why is he so good at everything?

"I belong to you," he says.

"Really?"

"Well," Peter murmurs, stopping to suckle just the head of Stiles' cock into his mouth until his knees shake, then pulls back again. "You don't see me running off with Justin Bieber, now do you?"

"Not applicable," Stiles insists. The fact that he can hold such a steady, coherent conversation while Peter flicks his tongue over the tip of his dick and strokes the base of it with his hands must say something about his concentration skills. Maybe he'd be a good lawyer, always ready for an argument no matter the leverage applied to him. He'll look into that—later. "Justin Bieber wasn't here asking you out and kissing you in bars."

"I wouldn't have cared," Peter says. "That's just a fantasy. This," Peter squeezes the cock in his hand, pulling a moan out of Stiles, "isn't a fantasy. You're not a fantasy."

"When we get back to your place," Stiles announces. "I'm throwing those damn lists out."

"Fine by me," Peter says, and resumes his task of reducing Stiles to whimpers by sucking him back into his mouth. He does this so well, shocks Stiles into pleasure and keeps going, _keeps going_ , absolutely relentless.

He can't bring himself to look away, not even for a moment, desperate to watch the way Peter builds a rhythm bobbing on his cock, the long licks and slow sucks he tortures Stiles with, the curve and stretch of his mouth around Stiles' dick. Stiles can hear his own throat making horribly undignified noises, choked moans and bitten off whimpers, but they don't seem to be any problem for Peter, who's only picking up the pace and the eagerness of his slick tongue. He takes Stiles deep in his mouth only to pull all the way back and lick softly over the head, stopping only to smile. Only Peter, Stiles thinks, only Peter can stop mid-blowjob to allot time for smugness.

"Tell me about the last time you got jealous," Peter says, his lips moving against Stiles' length as he speaks.

"Now?"

"Now."

Stiles knows how this works. Peter is too much of a sucker for listening to Stiles' intelligent strings of thought being whittled down to moans and tremors to let this opportunity pass, and Stiles happens to be a sucker for giving Peter what he wants when he's on his knees and sucking Stiles off, so he tangles his hand into Peter's hair and complies.

"You were picking me up from the station," Stiles says, fighting to keep his voice steady as Peter licks steady stripes up his cock. "I was there to catch up with my dad and—oh, fuck—right as I was coming up to you I saw you flirting with this—this girl who had been mugged. _Aah_." Stiles stops to bite his lip and pivot his hips forward. "Telling her she was fine and to take a bath in some Himalayan salts to feel more relaxed—shit, _Peter_ , do that again—and thinking it was normal to talk to a stranger about _baths_."

Peter licks all the way up to the base of Stiles' cock, hand sliding over his balls, and then says, "It isn't that strange."

"It _is_ ," Stiles says, and he's getting closer, he's so close, practically sobbing with need. "And she kept laughing—freshly mugged, and she was laughing. I wanted to—to—"

Peter grins. His lips are swollen and shiny and Stiles can hardly bear to look away. He's standing outside a bar with his Batman boxers on display around his knees and Peter's _grinning_ , all pleased and satisfied with Stiles' story, and Stiles is desperate to come. Maybe it’s _normal_ to get jealous, even healthy, just another way to prove that you’re alive and you feel things. The only important bit after that is to actually talk about it, so maybe when they’ll get home tonight, they really will.

"To what?"

Stiles groans. "To suck you off right then and there and make it clear that you were mine."

"Yours," Peter confirms, that smugness momentarily gone, and he looks at Stiles with dark, promising, serious eyes for a good three seconds before he goes back in and does something obscene and perfect with his tongue.

It hits Stiles then just how important they are to each other, and just how hard it would be to ever let go, and how if this is what a little bit of jealousy results in, Stiles is all for it, and it’s also the same moment when Stiles feels his dick hit the back of Peter's throat, and that's all it takes for Stiles to feel his stomach pulse with the force of his orgasm. His spine curves, no longer willing to keep him upright, and Stiles reaches for Peter's shoulder for support as he spills into Peter's mouth. Peter swallows around him, enthusiastic to the end, and doesn't stop until Stiles is shaking.

He wants so many things right then, boneless and trembling next to a dumpster, but most of them involve dragging Peter up by his shirt and all the way home. He wants to tell Peter all about how much he wants to keep him for himself, and how much he cares, and how much he'll consider getting Peter's name tattooed on his ass if it'll turn him on. 

And he wants to get that revolting minty flavor out of his mouth.

"Ah," Stiles says as he recovers from his orgasm and opens his eyes to see Peter licking his lips, the very epitome of being pleased with oneself. "You're forgiven for your weird possessive jealousy and for, well. Trying to vandalize someone's car with garden shears."

"I'm forgiven, am I?" Peter says, rising to his feet and tucking Stiles neatly back into his pants. "And how are you planning on making sure I forgive you?"

Stiles grabs him by the forearm, thinks—crazily enough— _please don't change_ , and says, "I'll think of a few ways on the drive home."

Peter smirks. "Sounds good to me."

He grabs Stiles' hand, firmly like he isn't planning on letting go anytime soon, and that, gratefully, is the end of that.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song Wolves by (naturally) One Direction.


End file.
